


Love Is All You Need

by Whreflections



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Cat Thorin, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I am so sorry this one is going to hurt, M/M, because the present is full of, but it's cute too?, the slash is in the past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a few reincarnations spent looking for Bilbo, Thorin finally has the first chance he's had to be with the lover he lost since all those years ago on the quest that brought them together.  Only, they can't be together, not really, because he's a cat, and this is one obstacle Thorin never saw coming.  </p><p>So far, he's learned that he never should have pushed Bilbo away, and in all that time spent waiting, he might have learned a little patience.  This time around, he's got a chance to learn that love is love, and however it's handed to them, it's enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to hurt so much; I'm so sorry. 
> 
> So I saw this prompt on the lj kink meme, and instead of immediately thinking of funny cat!Thorin antics(though I totally have a few of those planned, ngl), I thought of how angsty this story could be? Cause I mean imagine, being with your true love but he doesn’t know you, and you’re a cat, and he loves you too but it’s different, because, well, you’re a cat, and then you’re going to die on a cat timeline and-
> 
> Basically I think I can turn anything into angst, ok, I’m so sorry, OP if this is not what you wanted exactly, but I LOVE your prompt so I am doing my best even if I’m kind of evil, T.T

_There are as many forms of love as there are moments in time. –Jane Austen_

 

At eight weeks old, Thorin Oakenshield remembered everything. 

He stood in grass that came up past his chest, tickling at his belly, and it was as if the field spread out before him melted away, and he could see in flashes everything he’d left behind.  He saw it then like images caught as the pages of a book flipped, right before the book deposited itself in his mind in its entirety. 

He saw where he’d just been, saw sand and the darkness of blood on his own dark skin, heard the report of the gun that had taken his life, though it seemed a distant thing.  Before that he remembered Paris in the 20’s, smoke and the keys of the piano he’d played, the way he’d looked up at the door every night to watch for _his_ coming, but he’d never come, and Thorin had died coughing, blood on his lips.  He had a penchant for dying young, it seemed.  There were others, a lumberjack and another dwarf back home in Middle Earth, a human there who’d lived his whole life a slave to the Haradrim.  Last of all there was his point of entry, his defining moment, so full of darkness but for the light of one little hobbit. 

He could remember the warm weight of Bilbo on his chest, the softness in his laugh, the press of his lips; the ensuing revelation was instant.

_I lost him once; it will not happen again._

Or so he’d believed, all those long years.  He’d been so sure, but as he remembered Thorin looked down at his feet, at miniature paws against the cool earth, and he wondered if maybe he wasn’t simply being punished for his mistakes. 

Despairing, he toppled over, let the dew wet grass obscure the world around him.  Gods, but this was hopeless.  It mattered little, this time, if he was home in Middle Earth or in that strange realm that was simply _Earth_ ; how the hell could he find Bilbo like this?  And even if he could, what success could he hope for in such a state?  They couldn’t speak, couldn’t _love_ , couldn’t-

Damn it all, he couldn’t even focus properly for too long.  The dew was wet, beads of it soaking into his fur, and really, he’d never quite noticed how damned unpleasant it was to be wet.  Ruffled, he sat up, a little horrified at the distressed mewl that slipped from his lips.  He had to gather his composure, how to begin to consider how he might manage, and if he couldn’t even do that, what hope _had_ he?

Teeth closed around the back of his neck, sharp but gentle, and he found himself swaying, carried back to the nest box he’d tumbled so eagerly out of.  His mother tucked him between large grey paws, her rough tongue dragging down his spine until he could feel the chill of the dew begin to dissipate, banished by her careful ministrations.  Before he knew it, he’d begun to purr. 

\---------

Over his head, Thorin could hear voices chattering. 

“He _is_ a beautiful kitten, and I hate to say this, but I feel like I have to warn you; we’ve had trouble with him.  He was fine at first but he’s gotten so difficult.  Our daughter can’t even pick him up, not without him biting her hands to pieces.  I think he just wants his space, but-“

“We’ll be quite alright; I assure you.”  That second rumble was a voice Thorin recognized, old as time and every memory he had, but he didn’t have the time to sort it out before a hand was closing around his middle and he had to respond.  He twisted, spitting and digging in too small nails until he was drawn high enough by determined hands to look into amused eyes.  “Well, my friend, you are in quite the pickle, aren’t you?” 

 _Gandalf_.  Damn the wizard; of _course_ he’d come out human.  Probably did every time, come to think of it, probably never had to worry about ending up in a godforsaken pond with flippers or fins.  Thorin stilled, mouth frozen half open in an aborted hiss. 

To his left, the first voice whistled.  “I’ll be damned.”

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled, bright and merry as he tucked Thorin in against a soft brown sweater vest.    “Five dollars, I believe we agreed?” 

\---------

At 12 weeks, Gandalf cornered him at the window over the kitchen sink.  He’d been busying himself watching the birds-those damn crows thought themselves so clever, but he could see them hiding coins and bits of tinfoil in that nest on the porch roof, but they knew nothing of the guarding of treasure.  When he was bigger, he’d show them a thing or two. 

“Are you going to sulk forever, or are you going to communicate with me?”

Thorin’s ears pressed flat back, his tail suddenly jerking to life in an agitated twitch. 

“I know you can hear me; I know you remember.  How do you think it was I came for you?  I could sense the return of your memories.  I know you know who I am, just as surely as I know who you are.”

Clearly, the old man was as meddlesome as ever.  Thorin’s ears remained plastered to his skull, his shoulders hunching just a little further. 

“If you’re still this stubborn, Thorin Oakenshield, then it pains me to say you’ve learned nothing.” 

A low growl rumbled in his throat, his body still so small that it seemed to shake his entire frame, unbalancing him down to his toes.  If he held himself rigid enough, surely Gandalf wouldn’t see the way it almost made him shake. 

“And to think, I thought that after all this time you might be grateful for a chance to be with Bilbo again, but it seems I was wrong.  You’d rather spend your days doing battle with crows and rats, would you?  As you will, then; I’ll leave you to it.” 

In the yard, one of the crows had brought back a can tab, but the glint of metal under the sun had lost his attention. 

_I thought that after all this time you might be grateful for a chance to be with Bilbo again_

Just how stupid _was_ the man?  He’d have jumped at the chance if it was offered, but how could there be anything, while he was like this?  How could this life be anything but a waste, a cycle of food and naps and sunbeams and irritation?  He wasn’t even properly himself, not really, not when half his thoughts were invaded by cat thoughts, by the compulsory need to chase after the hem of Gandalf’s robe or the desire for entirely too much sleep? 

Still, for all he’d been guilty of before, Gandalf had never made false promises.  If he said that Thorin had a chance to see Bilbo again, there was a chance.  A chance, but did he want it, like this?  And would it be worse if Bilbo remembered him or if he didn’t?  Remembering would be its own torture, capped off with his inability to speak, but to have him oblivious would be no less painful, to see his life unfold with no memory of Thorin in it, to see him, perhaps, take another to his bed. 

Could he bear it?  Would it be better or worse to remain here, alone and bitter, collecting crow bones and bits of tinsel? 

By the time he trotted into the living room the sun slanted narrow across the floor, evidence of the hours he’d passed at the window, enough time spent that even his flexible spine had started to protest.  He hopped onto the arm of Gandalf’s favorite armchair, nails digging into already picked fabric on the side as he hauled himself up the final distance.  The chair, like Gandalf himself, smelled deeply of the pipe that rested trapped between his teeth.  Light smoke curled upwards, and Thorin tamped down on the desire to leap after it. 

Settling on his haunches, he mewed loudly, frustrated at his squeaky tone.  If he had to meow, he could at least sound a little more like himself, a little less like a damned high pitched elf. 

Gandalf’s smile was slow, knowing.  _Damn_ him.  “I see you’ve reconsidered.” 

He wished he could speak, could open his mouth and say, _You’re not always right, you know, wizard.  You don’t know me as well as you might think._

All that came out was a slightly higher, squeakier mew. 

Gandalf chuckled, let his big hand rest for a moment on Thorin’s head, thumb and forefinger rubbing gently behind his left ear.  “Very good.  I’ll take you tomorrow.”  


	2. Chapter 2

On about the twentieth hard curve, Thorin pitched forward, chin knocking roughly against the rim of the cardboard box he’d been resolutely climbing.  His nails dug in, or tried to, but he was jostled too roughly, and he fell back to land hissing on the towel Gandalf had folded in the bottom of the box.  Gods, he _hated_ these roads, hated the box that kept him from the windows and so kept him disoriented.  He felt nauseous travelling like this, would’ve felt ill enough at ease even if his stomach weren’t rolling with the turns.  Men weren’t meant to travel this way; if a man set out to walk a mountain it was  up to him to do it on foot, properly.  He’d used cars for years himself, but he’d never begun to think them any less wretched. 

“If you’d only stayed put, this drive would have been a great deal more pleasant for you.” 

Gandalf’s voice came down to him from above, disembodied, and Thorin sharpened his hiss, spitting till he ran out of breath. 

Gandalf’s chuckle was positively maddening.  “Of course, that would be asking too much, wouldn’t it?  But we’re almost there.  These mountains may not be as tall as you’re used to, and his inn isn’t so far up their slopes, but the Smoky Mountains have a majesty to them you’ll appreciate; that much I can promise.” 

They hit another turn, and Thorin clenched his paws against the towel.  He didn’t feel so much like they’d been climbing a mountain as spinning in circles. 

“I helped him find this property, you know.  Even helped him name it.  _Baggins Bed and Breakfast_.  I told him it was an old name; he said it had a nice ring to it, and I’m glad of it, for he goes by Baggins himself more often than not these days rather than the name given to him on this birth which doesn’t properly belong to him at all.  _Martin_ , of all things, for a hobbit!” 

 _Martin_.  As he was, he couldn’t taste it on his tongue, but he rolled it around in his mind and found that he could stand it, could learn to use it if he’d had a chance.  He’d gone by more than a few names himself in the past, but in one sense, Gandalf wasn’t wrong.  The other names had been fleeting, little more than momentary descriptors.  He had inhabited them; he _was_ Thorin. 

“He hasn’t had a cat since he was a boy, but I’ve no doubt he’ll take you in.  Cats add a certain magic to a home, of a kind no other creature can reproduce.  He’ll be happy for it, I’m sure of it.  And with Balin getting on-“

The noise he made just then might have come close to a screech, aborted though it was as he tried to leap for the edge of the box again. 

“Oh yes, he’s here.  As long as you’ve looked for Bilbo, your bad luck really has been remarkable.  You see, souls travel in circles, Thorin.  Yours is bound to his, and to the others.  You’re far more likely to meet again than to be separated, but of the rest of the company I have as yet seen no sign.  Balin is old now, and though he dreams of Erebor, he could no more tell you its name than he could the name of the world that contains it.  In _this_ world, he raised Bilbo after the death of the boy’s parents.  At this point, he has very little time left.  You will be a great comfort to him.” 

To see not only Bilbo again, but Balin as well…it was almost too much to hope for, and yet still just enough that he couldn’t help but wonder if this life was blessing or cruelty.  To know Balin, and be unable to tell him…

Another curve, and Thorin lost his balance, ribs slamming against the side of the box. 

Gandalf tutted, reached over to right him, gentle though Thorin puffed up to protest his help.  “If you’d lie down, the ride might go a little easier on you.”  Sitting up, Thorin curled his tail petulantly across his feet, gripped the towel hard enough to hold position for a moment at least.  He couldn’t be sure Gandalf was looking, but all the same there was warm amusement in his voice when he spoke again.  “Yes, alright.  We’re nearly there.” 

\---------

By the time Gandalf’s footsteps crunched gravel on his return to the car, Thorin had made a break from the box.  Left alone, he’d had ample time and opportunity to throw himself against the side closest to the dash until it tipped over, sending him tumbling down into the floor to come to rest between an ice scraper and an old coffee cup.  He shook off the fall, took a moment to groom the dishevelment out of his paws and shoulders before springing lightly onto the seat edge and over the console to the driver’s side. 

If he could reach the wheel he could climb to the dash, could watch and see their coming- but no, the distance was too great, the gaps in the wheel not suited for easy climbing, not when he wasn’t yet entirely adjusted to these limbs.  There was a grace he’d seen cats possess that he hadn’t yet mastered, either due to his youthful inexperience or his previous adjustment to two legs rather than four. 

He paced the seat edge, intent on contemplating his odds when he heard again the sound of hiking boots on rock, the rumble of Gandalf’s voice and after it, another voice altogether. 

“Gandalf,-“  Gods, Thorin would’ve known that voice anywhere.  It froze him, one paw raised, whiskers quivering as he looked up for the source.  The windows were still empty of faces, their steps still too distanced.  “I’m not exactly equipped for a kitten though, I haven’t got-“

“What they chiefly need are warm places to nap and chances to get into mischief; you have those things in abundance.”

“Yes, but-“

“He’ll be good company for you, Baggins, and you know it.” 

“I don’t doubt it, but- “

“As you can see, he’s managed to get himself into trouble already.  Out of the box in the ten minutes it took me to fetch you.” 

Hundreds of years on, thousands for all he knew, and still when Bilbo looked at him, the blue in those eyes arrested him so he couldn’t have imagined looking away.  The similarities struck him, his blonde hair just a little too short and his t-shirt speckled with paint in a way Bilbo wouldn’t have endured, but those were ripples, minor points of blurring in a picture that could’ve almost come for Thorin’s memory.  He was breathtaking, alive and real, hands covered with flour as if he’d just been pulled away from the kitchen.  He’d told Thorin once how his mother had been a magnificent cook, how when they reclaimed Erebor, he’d make Thorin the finest apple pie he’d ever had, season meatballs to impress even Bombur. 

So much of their lives had never happened, so much leftover to taunt Thorin with the power of potential, endless reminders of all he’d lost, all he might’ve had if the gold hadn’t taken him. 

Quite to his own surprise, his mouth opened on a yowl, soft and trembling.  Dammit, he needed to get a grip, square his shoulders and look at least a little respectable.  If nothing else, he had to look like a kitten worth taking.  He licked his whiskers, steadying himself, but before he could sit up properly to door had popped open and he was scooped up into floured hands. 

“Poor thing; must be so confused.”

No, no that wasn’t it at all, he wasn’t _lost_ , not anymore, he-

“You will be keeping him?”

“I can never manage to get rid of anything you bring to my doorstep, can I?  That plant you brought last year has nearly taken over an entire bookshelf in my library, not to mention the guests that stay for weeks on end!  As far as dealings with you are concerned, one kitten seems to be getting off rather light.” 

He tucked Thorin closer as he spoke, fingers dusting Thorin’s blue grey fur whiter and whiter.  There was part of him that wanted to squirm, an urge to kick and whine and lick every inch of the offending power away until he was fluffy again, but those were Bilbo’s fingers, warm and sure and he could not cry, could not press them to his lips, could do nothing he might once have.  He’d replayed their reunion so many times he’d been ready with a dozen possibilities but now…

Now, he purred. 

Shifting his grip, Bilbo held Thorin up before his eyes, his little body supported in both hands.  “Alright then, troublemaker, are you hungry?”

Not that he’d particularly noticed, but he could eat.  He mewed, eager to answer, though Gandalf’s voice almost drowned him out. 

“His name is Thorin.” 

Bilbo’s thumb smoothed between his eyes, slow and gentle.  “Thorin.”  He murmured, and the name rolled off his tongue with the ease of familiarity.  The head could forget; the heart never could.  He repeated it, softer, his eyes flickering with momentary curiosity.  “Hello there, Thorin.” 

Thorin’s paws kneaded against his fingers, pinprick claws hooking on skin just sharply enough to draw a little blood.  He noticed too late to stop, too absorbed in the instinct of the motion.  If Bilbo noticed, he made no sign, only smiled. 

“Well, come on then.  I’ll have to go out for kitten food, but for the time being, I don’t suppose you’d say no to some bacon and cream, hm?”  


End file.
